


Fleur-de-lis

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Army, I'm Sorry, Language of Flowers, M/M, Military, Pining, Pre-A Study in Pink, References to Drugs, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, beaten to death motif, but not sorry enough not to post it, deliberately confusing time/reality/past/drug haze mix, soldier John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: A teenlock AU based off Carrie Underwood's song Just A Dream. Heartbreaking as possible.<br/>..........</p><p>But his thoughts are hazy now, slipping away from him. He thinks of the important thing, but then he’s thinking about something else altogether, something warm and golden and a smile on John’s lips, because it’s autumn in Sussex and that was summer. And they had forever, then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleur-de-lis

**Author's Note:**

> The fleur-de-lis is one of the most commonly recognized symbols of France, particularly of its royalty and the name literally translates to 'lily flower'. White lilies have symbolized many things over the years to many different cultures-- In the Catholic tradition, they stand for purity and chastity. In others, they stand for devotion and friendship, loyalty and sympathy. They're used at many weddings and anniversaries, though they're most often associated with the 2nd anniversary and they're also the most commonly used flowers at funerals. Then too, they stand for remembrance and faith-- and, of course, eternity.

After John leaves him, Sherlock does not sleep for 3 days. He wanders about the house in only a white sheet, looking like a haunted wraith out of an old horror film, with his pale, almost translucent skin and stretched, bony face. 

Mycroft worries about him. He worries about him because Sherlock has a penchant for self-destruction and an inability to cope with reality—he worries because the only one who could ever handle his baby brother is gone. 

Mostly, he worries because there is no one else to worry.

Mummy sits in the foyer and taps at the black-cherry writing desk with her long, fragile fingernails. Tip-tap, tip-tap, all day long. She hasn’t done much else since father left. Once, Mycroft thought that she couldn’t possibly spend the rest of her life like that, tip-tap, tip-tap and a blank void in place of her once-lively expression. Now, he’s not so sure. It’s been almost a year and today, she only looks more malcontent than ever, the skin at the sides of her mouth weighted by the gravity of a sin both ancient and, apparently, unpardonable. 

Though he doesn't know that it really was about the affair, in the end. Surely they’d all suspected Father was unfaithful, if not known? 

Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d chosen not to see. Maybe, that’s where Sherlock inherits it from.

It’s irrelevant, really. Not when she stares at a sunny day as if it’s done her a personal slight. She wants the weather to weep with her, to appease her sense of the dramatic, and Sussex, for the most part, is perfectly happy to oblige. But not today and so she’s sulking in the sunshine and he’s almost relieved, because it’s more emotion than he’s seen from her in months.

Tip-tap, tip-tap. 

It’s time he did something about Sherlock. 

But Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Somehow he’s managed to disappear in this mammoth grey house, gangly and loud though he usually is. There’s a crease on the sofa, where he flopped down in dramatic agony a few hours ago. A pillow haphazardly thrown on the ground and probably stomped upon too. Mycroft’s no fool. If Sherlock doesn’t want to be found, there is little to be gained in searching for him. 

He’ll show up, eventually. Even the great Sherlock Holmes needs to eat and sleep and shower on occasion. 

Tip-tap, tip-tap.

He wonders what it says about him that, these days, he finds the sound more irritating than sad. 

.......

Sherlock is almost asleep. Or rather, he’s collapsed on the last two stairs leading to the attic, which is where he hides out when he’s particularly in need of solitude. Which is often, if not always. Mycroft is too fastidious to enter a room so dank and unfinished and Mummy--- well, Mummy is too busy wallowing in self-pity and sentiment to try to find him. She’s letting herself pine away in sufficient drama to drive them all mad and Sherlock despises her for it. 

The irony of that does not and will never occur to him. 

Sherlock slides down the banister and sits, his thin sheet wrapped tightly around him. His skin is chilled, but that feels appropriate. So does the thin dripping of water in the corner. What does not feel appropriate, however, is the sliver of sunlight that dares to peep through the curtained window. He glares at it, willing it to go away, but English weather is nothing if not spiteful. 

It’s a sunny day. There’s nothing Sherlock can do about that.

He slinks down lower on the stair and his eyes flutter as he fights to stay awake. 72 hours and all he’s had is a quick nap, one hour that would be his best guess at what hell is meant to be, if he were at all religious. 

But his thoughts are hazy now, slipping away from him. He thinks of the important thing, but then he’s thinking about something else altogether, something warm and golden and a smile on John’s lips, because it’s autumn in Sussex and that was summer and they had forever then.

His head droops to the side and the white shroud slips off his shoulder.  
………………

Every time, it begins like this. There’s a crowd of people gathered at the church, a faceless, nameless mass dressed in various shades of color. He can’t pick out any of them and yet he knows they’re there. Mummy and Mycroft, of course, and Miss Treadle, his violin teacher and Mr. and Mrs. Andre, Mummy’s friends from down the street, and Violet, that younger girl who’s had a crush on him since they were 12. He knows all of them and despises them equally, but here, they don’t matter.

What matters, what’s always mattered, is John. John, who is five years older and infinitely better than him. John, who drags Sherlock out of bed when he’s sulking and cuddles him when he’s prickly and banters with him all day long. 

John, who never makes promises he can’t keep and who’s been his entire world for as long as Sherlock can remember.  
…………..

It was two weeks ago and Mycroft was right. Still is. It started with Sherlock, staggering in theatrically, gaunt and hopeless and stinking of cigarette smoke. It ended with him storming out in much the same fashion. As these things were wont to do. Still, Mycroft couldn't resist. 

“Pining suits your complexion, baby brother. A little more effort and you might even be able to pass for consumptive.”

“And you might be able to pass for a baby whale, if you eat the rest of that pastry, but I hardly feel your need to point out the obvious.” 

“I’m quite serious Sherlock. You can’t possibly be meaning to spend the next year moping. I understand you’re concerned, of course, but—“

Sherlock looked up for the first time, fury warping his thin face. “I’m not concerned,” he spat. “Why would I be concerned?”

Mycroft knew, even then, that now was the time to shut up. He knew it, but understand-- Sherlock couldn’t be allowed to live in his dream world for eternity (and, more to the point, he wouldn’t allow himself be cowed by his younger brother, even if he didn’t understand him), So he said the reasonable, obvious thing, even though the reasonable obvious thing was precisely what was going to get him into trouble. Older siblings must do that, sometimes. 

“You have every right to be concerned. Your—friend—has been deployed to Afghanistan—“

Sherlock rose from his chair and leaned over, palms flat on the table, curls flopping into his flashing eyes. “I am not concerned,” he hissed, inches from Mycroft’s face. “John promised he’d come back. So he’ll come back. What earthly reason do I have to be concerned?” 

“There is a 2.3% mortality rate for soldiers in combat in that particular region,” Mycroft said, without blinking. “I would imagine that John Watson is as much at the whims of probability as are the rest of—“

Sherlock tried to laugh, his usual, condescending, little laugh, but the sound that gargled forth from his throat was horrid and choked. Mycroft was conscious, rather, that what he’d just said might be counted as cruel. No, best not to hide, it WAS cruel. But Sherlock was neither stupid nor a child and Mycroft would not treat him like one. He would not coddle him with false hope. It displeased him to see Sherlock like this, so emotional and hurt and he needed to learn. But---

“Probability is far and away on his side,” Mycroft said finally, gently even. 

Simply rational and yet--Hope, for better or for worse. 

Sherlock looked away, his fist clenching and unclenching on the table. 

“Fuck off,” was all he said. 

…………

The people sway and sing in the background and it’s nauseating. He feels sick and wrong, standing there in his most formal suit, a bouquet of white lilies clenched in his hand. 

Lilies for innocence, lilies for friendship. Just friendship. 

How quaint. 

But John looked—he just looked like he cared, he looked so precious, that day, as he sat on the floor at Sherlock’s feet, cradling Sherlock’s hurt hand. And then John had carefully cleaned off the chemicals, plucked at the bits of glass, his brow furrowed with concern. 

“It’s not poisonous?” he asked. “You sure you can’t tell me?”

“No—no, I—“ John would think he was a freak too, if he knew about the blood samples and then Sherlock might lose the only friend he had. Not that he cared, but-- but John’s hand was warm and protective on Sherlock’s knee, his face just there and if he was going to lose John, he might as well do it properly. And so he darted forwards and pecked John on the lips. What he didn’t expect was for John to hold him there, his hand tangling in Sherlock’s too-long hair. What he didn't expect was for John to kiss him back properly. 

“You’re too young,” John said breathlessly, his hand tightening almost to the point of pain. “We can’t—“

Sherlock slid off the couch and into John’s open arms, his long, thin legs bracketing John’s thighs. 

“We just did,” he pointed out. "And I'm 18- I can make my own choices."

"Can you?" John asked. And then his arms wrapped around Sherlock and held him and Sherlock thinks that if he could do it again, he'd tell John yes, yes he could, and that John was always his choice-- always will be.

It seemed too obvious to say, then. So he slumped in John's arms and tried very hard not to think of the 54 possible ways this could backfire on them. 

Well, 37.

Too late. 

Because it turned out Sherlock was a bit right-- they put that friendship behind them forever. But it also turned out that he was a bit wrong, because it was the best thing that could possibly have happened. 

Lilies for hope.

He'd almost forgotten.  
…………

“You’ll come back,” Sherlock insists. He’s in the back seat of John’s car, his head pillowed on John’s shoulder. They’re pretending to look at the stars. 

In reality, Sherlock has eyes only for the soft profile of John’s face, the thin curves of his lips.

“Of course I’ll come back, you idiot,” John says. He takes Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it. “Got to keep you out of trouble, don’t I?” 

But Sherlock’s not about to be diverted. He pulls away and bites his lip.

“What if you don’t? What if you die?”

“Oye, you’re being a bit melodramatic, aren’t you?” 

“I’m not,” Sherlock protests. “I looked up the casualty rate and it’s 1.7% for combat soldiers in Afghanistan and higher for—“

“Oh shut up, Sherlock,” John says, squeezing his hand. “Look, I’ll come home, alright? It’s you, I got to.” He laughs a little. “So don’t go moping about too much, see? You’ll start looking like a Regency heroine.”

“A—what?” Sherlock frowns. “I don’t understand. I don’t mope.” 

“’What size do you think your waist is?” John muses. “Not that I know much about corsets, mind—“

Sherlock huffs and turns away. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Sherlock allows himself to be pulled back onto John’s shoulder. “No I don’t,” he agrees. “Shockingly clever deduction—“

John kisses him and the rest of his words are lost as he clings to him, his hand fisting into John’s collar. 

“If I’m going to make you swoon, might as well do it properly,” John says and Sherlock must indeed be a bit light-headed, because all he can think is that John’s eyes are far brighter than the stars. 

………..

Sherlock doesn’t remember the time before John, because he’s deleted it.  
………………….

“Take care of yourself,” John says, later that night, when it’s dark enough to indulge in sentiment. “Whatever happens—“

“Nothing will happen.” 

Sherlock draws John’s hand down over his belly, a distraction, but this time, John is determined. 

“Just—promise you’ll keep yourself—clean, okay?” he continues doggedly. “For me.” 

“I’ll wash behind my ears every day, Mummy.” 

“SHERLOCK.” 

Sherlock sighs. “Oh for god’s sakes, John,” he says, almost petulantly. “That was ages ago.”

“A year.” 

“Half a lifetime.”

“Maybe for you, baby,” John teases. Sherlock heartily dislikes being reminded that he’s five years younger and he pinches John’s wrist in punishment. But John simply threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hand, their joined hands splayed across Sherlock’s stomach. 

“Promise me,” he demands again, his breath warm against Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock pouts.

“Don’t you trust me at all, John?”  
………….

There’s a flag on the wall and soldiers in uniform lining the hallway. A proper military event, their arms solemn by their sides, their backs stiff and tall. 

Lilies for chastity, lilies for purity. But he has neither, after all those stolen nights, John’s arms twisted around his bare back, his lips open and hot against John’s jaw. 

They rocked slowly on Sherlock’s cramped bed, that first time, his legs splayed obscenely open under John, the air heavy with the scent of sex. John turned his head and kissed him sloppily and Sherlock came too soon, moaning into John’s mouth. 

He couldn’t sit without wincing for two days and Mycroft certainly knew, but he never said anything. 

That was long ago, now. 

Maybe almost a year. 

There are other meanings for lilies, but it occurs to Sherlock that he's not particularly fond of symbolism.  
…………….

Ah yes, lilies for humility. Now, there's a laugh. 

........... 

John’s the liar. 

John presses him up against the library door and holds him tightly, like he has for so many days, so many nights. He buries his head in Sherlock’s neck and won’t let go. 

“I love you,” he tells the curve of Sherlock’s throat. “I love you, I love you—“

“You don’t,” Sherlock says. His hands are stiff by his side. “You don’t or else you wouldn’t leave.” 

“Don’t be silly,” John says. “Come on then love, kiss me goodbye and I’ll be back sooner than you know it.” But his arms tighten around Sherlock’s waist, belying the casualness of his words. 

“No,” Sherlock says. He leans his head back against and door and closes his eyes. If he concentrates, he can just smell the scent of John’s aftershave, the starched odor of his new uniform. 

If he kisses John now, it might be accepting that John really is leaving. If he kisses John now, he risks breaking.

“You’re being selfish,” John says quietly. “Let me go Sherlock—and I’ll come back. I always do.”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “But I am selfish, John,” he says coldly. “Did no one tell you? Here, let me elaborate—so terribly sorry, John, but your boyfriend is a heartless bastard, incurable condition, I’m afraid--“

“Shut up. Just—shut up, Sherlock.”” 

John’s arms droop to his sides and he takes one last ragged breath on Sherlock’s shoulder before standing up and looking Sherlock in the eyes.

“Don’t do this,” he warns. “Sherlock—I—I love you, you git. Let me have that.”

“If you loved me,” Sherlock says, fixing his gaze on the far wall. “You’d stay. But you’re leaving and what, John, might we conclude from that?”

“Sherlock, that’s not—“

“I don’t care.”

“You do--“

“Do not ascribe emotions to me that I do not possess, John.” 

“You love me,” John says and it is halfway between a plea and an accusation. “Don’t deny it, I know—“

“I am a diagnosed sociopath. Surely you understand what that means, DOCTOR Watson?” 

John’s entire body seems to crumple and Sherlock hates himself, because he knows how much he hurts John, but he needs to see it anyways. He needs to see how much John cares and if John would just come back, kiss him, and forget all this rot about queen and country--

But John doesn’t step back. “A bit not good, Sherlock,” is all he says. He turns away then, stiff and proud, his soldier, and if his eyes are red, neither of them mention it.  
……..

His feet are heavy and the air is cloyingly hot. The sun, he thinks, stupidly, blinking tired eyes. 

He’s not sure why Harriet is holding his hand (he doesn’t like her and she isn’t sober, not even now), but then he realizes it’s because he’s stumbling. He’s a raw, flayed open sack of jittery nerves and anxiety, but that’s understandable, today, of all days. 

Today is the day John comes home. 

Lilies for promises, lilies for eternity.

Lilies for new-made brides, all dressed in white.  
……………

John calls. It has been long enough that Sherlock can pretend he’s forgotten. 

“When will you come back?”

“Miss me?” His voice is rougher than Sherlock remembers and Sherlock doesn’t like that. 

“Every day. You have to call every day,” Sherlock orders. “And—“

“Sherlock, I can’t, alright?” John says and it’s so close to being snappish that Sherlock starts. John is—John was—never—not with him. He can hear the exhale of air from the other end. 

“Look, the connection’s a bit rough—I hear you’re going back to Cambridge?“

“Yes. Tedious, but Mycroft insists I finish my education. John—I—I’m—about what I said--“

“It’s—not now.” John says. His voice is quiet. “Here just—just talk to me for a bit, yeah? I just want to hear your voice.”

Sherlock can’t think of anything to say, but he talks anyways. He talks for 13 solid minutes, staring blankly at the wall, his fingers toying nervously with the hem of his shirt. He talks until John has to leave. 

And then, he continues talking. 

It becomes a habit.  
……….

It was Mummy that taught Sherlock about flowers, for all the he doesn’t remember it. Father thought it was useless, frivolous even, such knowledge and, privately, Mycroft agreed with him.

But Sherlock followed her and picked up all her esoteric bits and pieces along with her French, his lilting baby voice repeating pedantically after her. 

“La-le-fle—fleur—le fleur.“

“ Très bien, mon petit chou.”  
………….

The preacher motions for everyone to pray. Sherlock merely freezes. He’s not religious, so he shouldn’t be here. They’ll find out, eventually. He’s not religious and he’s standing in a church—he’s not John’s, not as much as he wants to be, but he’s carrying white lilies up the church aisle for him anyways. 

The thought is suddenly unbearably funny. 

Any second, they’ll look up and they’ll realize that he’s all wrong and it’s not fair to John. He goes from almost laughing to horrified so fast that he wants to weep and the world spins about him, crystal sharp and terribly fast. 

John. John will be so very disappointed in him, but that’s what Sherlock does, really. 

He drops the bouquet, because lilies are for remembrance too, aren't they, and Sherlock can’t handle that, not yet.  
………

“When you come back, we’ll have to find a flat in London, John. I want to move to the very center.”

“And what will you do there, love?”

“Police-work, of course. They’re entirely incompetent up at Scotland Yard. Did you see the Holder case?”

“Newspapers a bit rare, sorry—“ 

“A cornet, went missing and his son was found holding a piece of it. Footprints in the snow, half the pieces missing and who did they suspect? The son. Can you imagine anything more utterly idiotic?“

“Um. No. Sure. Hang on, you want to go through that—“

“So you’ll do it then? You’ll move to London with me?”

“And what will I do there?” 

“Practice, if you insist upon it. No, that will take you away far too often and I—I need--- “ it’s on the tip of his tongue to say it and he can feel John waiting. “An assistant,” he finishes.

“I need an assistant.” 

………

He can’t run from this, however much he wants to. They’re all watching him, waiting for him, and Sherlock cannot run from their stares. He’s shaking, more than a little. But that is absurd—he’s going to see John, after so long. Just John—why be so nervous, then? 

It’s Mummy who hands him back the bouquet. The lilies are as fresh as they were when she first handed them to him and he can’t remember when he dropped them. She looks beautiful, somber and formal, but radiant. She’s happy, because she loves those flowers and he can feel the answering edges of euphoria still there. 

He tries to smile at her, but his jitters tie up his smiles into knots and she waves him on. 

He’s almost done. 

They’re almost there. __  
………..

Mycroft finds him on the stairs to the attic, sprawled out as if he gave up on climbing half way up. His sheet catches about his waist, making a valiant, if futile effort to preserve his modesty. 

“Sherlock, do wake up---Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s eyes are too red to be natural and he clings to Mycroft’s wrist, blinking rapidly.

“You were screaming,” Mycroft tells him gently. “It was only a dream, Sherlock—a nightmare, perhaps.”

Sherlock pushes him away abruptly, his hands frantically tugging at his hair. 

“Was it?” he asks. “Tell me it was. Tell me there wasn’t— tell me it didn’t happen, Mycroft.”

“What didn’t happen?”

“Tell me he’s coming home,” Sherlock insists. “He promised he would—he doesn’t break promises.” 

“Oh, Sherlock.”  
………….

 

Epilogue: 10 years later  
_________________

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock says, when Mycroft joins him on the porch, where he’s been smoking for the past hour. “She’s not pining for HIM.” 

He says it as if it’s obvious. He says it like he’s always known. Perhaps he has. 

“Oh? Then for whom is she pining?” 

“Not who—what.”

“I don’t follow, I’m afraid.”

“Lilies,” Sherlock responds enigmatically. “She didn't teach me about flowers- she taught me about _lilies_ , don't you see?”

It takes him an unforgivably long moment. “Oh,” he says in surprise. “But she could go—any time. It’s a mere train ride away.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s not her city anymore,” he says simply. “She grew up in the 1950s, Mycroft, and she knew Paris like she knew her own hand and now she doesn’t. It’s not hers anymore.” 

“But that’s just sentiment,” Mycroft says, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Why--It’s just a place.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees slowly. “It’s just sentiment.” He stabs his cigarette out on the bannister and turns to leave. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mycroft asks him, though he knows. Sherlock can never bear to be away from John for long. 

“Home,” Sherlock says, sure enough. “I need to go back to London. There’s a case—“

“Ah, the serial killer who has his victims commit suicide—a touch obvious, is it not?”

“Yes. Of course,” Sherlock says briefly.

Mycroft sighs, suddenly weary. 

"Be careful, please, Sherlock. Don't do anything-- stupid."

It's futile, of course. Sherlock merely half-grimaces, half-smiles.

"Don't you trust me?" 

…………………

John promised he’d come home. 

And he did. 

“It grows tedious,” Sherlock tells him softly. “But there is a case and--I wish you would come.”

John is silent, but Sherlock has had enough practice talking to walls to not need his input.

“I still need—“ He stops and plucks his cigarette out from between his lips. He drops it irreverently on the ground and immediately reaches for another. 

“I still need---an assistant,” he tells the cold, unyielding stone,his voice catching a little, even after all these years. 

If a year was half his life, ten is now eternity. 

He bites his lip, allowing himself exactly one minute to consider changing that statement. But Sherlock is not religious and whatever he knew of John only lives in his memories. So he's doing this for himself, then. 

Because his soldier left him a long time ago. 

In the end, he turns his coat collar up and walks briskly away, leaving the rest, as always, unsaid.

Lilies for mourning.

Lilies for death.  


He has a cab to catch. 

**Author's Note:**

> The song link is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLntFKtR66g
> 
> I used to love it when I was 17-- which was four years ago, admittedly, but my music taste really hasn't improved.
> 
> And yeah, the times are hazy-- purposefully, because the song is a combination of a dream/past/reality and I decided to toss drugs into this mix because why not? Hopefully it's not too difficult to follow.


End file.
